


Compliments of the Chef (Snapshots)

by rum4life



Series: Osteria [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, don't mind brad, karen just GOT TO HIM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 06:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21333766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rum4life/pseuds/rum4life
Summary: "Ray," Brad calls out without looking up from the wild boar chops he's jizzing, "where's my pescatore for table 10?"A hot pan messily dripping sauce-smothered pasta all down its side slides too fast down the counter from his left; only Brad's finely-tuned reflexes manage to save it from crashing right into table 4's lamb.
Series: Osteria [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537897
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Compliments of the Chef (Snapshots)

"You really don't need to hear the rest of this, Brad," says Ray desperately.

"Just read it."

"I'm serious, homes," Ray holds his phone up like a shield, and Brad can see sweat gathering on his forehead under the rolled edge of his red bandana. "This user is probably, like, just some fucking butthurt liberal can-I-speak-to-your-Manager Karen type with no culture and a Mommy blog and _definitely_ no idea what the hell she's talking about--"

"Ray," Brad interrupts, edging a warning into his voice. He gestures with his knife to the phone that Ray is clutching so hard his knuckles have gone bone-white.

His whole team have abandoned their prep and are now gathered around him and Ray, tense and worried. Poke comes to lean on the counter next to Brad, hands still bloody from tying off tenderloins.

"Like a fuckin' bandaid, dawg," Poke mutters to Ray, shaking his head. "Just rip that shit off so we can get on with our shit."

Ray swallows, eyes flicking from Poke to Brad to his phone and then back to Brad. "Okay." Ray clears his throat. "Uh, right, where was I?"

"Lamb fricasse," Poke prompts.

Ray holds his phone up again to read from it, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. "_It was a dish that told its own story with every mouthful, but unfortunately the story was a bloody one, of a war waged and lost. The question remains: h-" Ray clears his throat again, and shifts awkwardly. "-has Chef, has Chef Colbert lost his touch? My dining experience today suggested that perhaps what I was tasting was not just a mediocre version of a classic dish, but also the overconfidence of a once-great artist and leader so caught up in the glory of his own self-importance that all else has fallen to the wayside_."

Ray flicks his eyes up again, once, before finishing: "_T-two stars._"

"Two stars," Brad repeats flatly.

"Um?" Ray yelps. "She's a fucking little bitch asshole, Brad, don't listen to this bullshit."

Well, Brad _isn't_ listening. He will not let this get to him.

One fucking TripAdvisor asshole didn't like his food, so what. Brad doesn't give a shit. Brad looks into Ray's wide eyes calmly, uncurls, and then walks straight out of the kitchen without saying another word.

If his hand just so happens to catch the edge of a baking tray on his way out and sends dozens of perfectly baked macaroons flying towards the wall, well-- it's a kitchen. Accidents happen.

**

"I need my table 4," Brad says as calmly as he can, raising his voice above the chattering of the POS machine by his head spitting out tickets in angry spurts. "Walt, why the fuck do I have the garnish for the Florentine but no fucking Florentine? _Walt!_"

Dinner rush is in full swing and Walt's face is bright red with exertion and nerves. He is so thoroughly in the weeds already that Brad can already picture the kitchen stuttering to a halt if Walt doesn't unfuck his shit soon.

"I'm sorry, Chef," Walt ducks under the pans hanging over his head to yell, craning his neck to wipe his sweaty forehead on his shoulder. "Sorry, sorry-- I need five more minutes on the Florentine, Chef!"

"It's fine, Walt," Brad says through gritted teeth. "Focus and keep open comms with Doc. Time it right, it won't happen again. Remember- _communicate_."

"Okay," Walt says, blinking rapidly. "O-okay." He turns back to the grill and stands still for a moment, staring blankly down at the expanse of sizzling orders, before shaking himself once and reaching for the tongs.

Swearing quietly to himself, Brad wipes a spatter of red sauce from the edge of the plate in front of him, trying to keep track of the orders in his head. Poke calling in with an apparently "debilitating" case of the shits meant pulling Walt off the line and onto the grill station; he's a good cook, but tends to go blank when faced with too many orders at once. Brad's already reorganizing the lineup in his head, preparing to jump in himself if Walt can't get on top of his shit.

_Should've gone with Doc on grill instead._

"Ray," Brad calls out without looking up from the wild boar chops he's jizzing, "where's my pescatore for table 10?"

A hot pan messily dripping sauce-smothered pasta all down its side slides too fast down the counter from his left; only Brad's finely-tuned reflexes manage to save it from crashing right into table 4's lamb.

"Ray-Ray's got your back, Chef!" Ray yells over the usual kitchen cacophony, a touch too loud. "You can save your thank-you blowjob for later, I gotta go save Walt from being eaten by the giant, scary grill."

Brad shoots him a look; Ray is manic-eyed and grinning widely, whites and apron already spattered beyond saving with three kinds of pasta sauces and something that is either chocolate or human shit.

(Knowing Ray, the likelihood that it's the latter is definitely not out of the question.)

"If you've got enough time to stick your tongue up my ass, Person, then use it to clean up your fucking section," Brad snaps. "You're supposed to keep the sauce in the fucking pan, not smear it all over the goddamn walls like a monkey throwing its own feces."

Ray isn't listening. Somehow he's already across the kitchen and sidling up to Walt, grabbing Walt's ass and flipping a steak and shouting "_Mamma Mia,_ that's a spicy meat-a-ball!" all at the same time.

Christ. If Ray weren't one of the best line cooks Brad's ever worked with, Brad wouldn't think twice before butchering Ray into fat, juicy, white-trash sausages for Saturday's dinner special.

At least Walt looks a little calmer, even if his face is still red and his eyes dart from side to side a touch too fast. As Brad plates the pasta pescatore, he half-watches the way Ray jostles Walt's shoulder, messy and demanding and in-your-fucking-face but also already preparing to take two separate orders off the grill.

_Good man._

The heat from the salamander is slowly roasting the right side of Brad's neck, and the radio has somehow been changed to a pop channel and is blasting out some godawful banjo-twanging cousin-fucking hick country version of _99 Problems_. Table 4's lamb fricassee stares up at him, morphing for a second into an unknown face, mockingly repeating:

_Two stars. Mediocre. Has Chef Colbert lost his touch? _

_Two. Stars_.

Feeling off-center and irritated, Brad sighs and looks up at the window, where orders for two separate three-tops and a four top are rapidly cooling.

_Where the fuck,_ Brad thinks in annoyance.

He ducks to peer through the pass into the darkness beyond. Nothing.

"Any time one of you ladies feel like gently removing your tampons and getting my fucking food out before it congeals," Brad calls out to the nonexistent floor staff, "that would really just be _fantastic_."

"Coming, coming!" pants a harried voice, and then the lower half of Pappy's mustachioed face appears. "Sorry, Chef, it's turned into a goddamn county fair circus act out here. Fuckin' newbie hostess seated four parties in Rudy's section at once, we're--"

"Pappy." Brad exhales through his nose. "Please. Just get these out."

"You got it, Iceman," says Pappy apologetically. Finally, _finally_, the plates begin to clear one by one from the window.

"All right, listen up, ladies," Brad says over his shoulder, snatching at the crammed line of tickets. "Fire, table 3, _secondo_: one boar, two Florentine, one lamb. Christenson, I'm giving you thirty seconds for table 5's antipasti before I get in there and personally castrate you."

"It's all Screwby, Chef," shouts Q-Tip from the garde manger station over the roar of the dishwasher starting up. "Your boy's walking them now!"

"I got one minute on the scallops, Ray," yells Doc from his sauté position. "Your table 6 ready to go?"

"Walking in uno, roger that, yo! Table 6 is hot and ready like a Thai massage girl!"

From the corner of his eye, Brad watches as Doc tosses a used sauté pan into the sink 10 feet away: it narrowly misses the side of Q-Tip's face and the resulting splash is danger-close for the garde manger section.

Doc turns and yells over his shoulder, "Ray, how the fuck you ready to go in one with the pappardelle if you're still over there finger-fucking Hasser's steaks?"

"You underestimate my ability to multi- shit, Walt, your apron's on fire!"

"What? Fuck! _Fuck!_"

** _Crash._ **

"The fuck was that?"

"Ha haaa! Holy _shit_, you guys, that fucking new guy Trombley just spilt the bechamel all over the fucking walk-in!"

Brad closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The next time Pappy swoops a hand into the window, Brad quietly requests a giant fucking glass of red bull over crushed ice.

"Hands!"


End file.
